


Best Practices

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Series: it sounds like a whisper [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fix-It, Gratuituously Detailed Descriptions of Hands, Introspection, Ishgardian Class and Gender Politics, Love Confessions, Mush and Sap, Pining, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19132528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: When it comes to Joye, Stephanivien is caught in an impossible tangle of obligation, position, power, and emotion.





	1. Snowflakes

**Author's Note:**

> This picks up immediately at the end of A Better Fit and is something of a companion piece to it, as well as references events and characters first developed in Cherchez la femme, thus I strongly recommend that readers have read these prior two works in this series before reading this.

Stephanivien’s very first thoughts, that morning, were that he could not do this again.

His very first coherent thoughts, at least—once he’d fully left an uncomfortable dreamscape behind, once he’d stirred enough to understand where he was, once he’d opened his eyes to confirm it. Prior, he’d thought in confused fragments— _not warm. sore—stiff? lumpy. lumpy but soft…_ —and just after he’d opened his eyes: _oh_.

Because under his gaze laid Joye—on her back, his arm draped over her and she, in turn, was stroking that same arm—she was awake too, he realized, and it took all his willpower to stay frozen still,not to recoil. It’d frighten her, he thought reflexively, then immediately chided himself for it. She wasn’t some kind of antelope, to flee from the slightest frightenment—and besides, even if she were, wouldn’t that be for the best? Because he couldn’t be doing things like this?

He knew it was true, as did she. Even though it would just be rumors, he remembered how such things had tormented her the last time someone had the idea to spread them. Honestly, Stephanivien thought, the miracle was that they’d both awoken before any of the manufactory’s workers had arrived and seen them like this, because this would _surely_ get tongues wagging, the sight of the manufactory chief cradling one of his machinists in his arms, practically cuddled together on the old sofa, under a pile of apron-blankets…

(That so old and ill-used a sofa remained so comfortable was at one a miracle and a botherment; it’d be easier to leave this if it felt as wrong as it was).

All the same, though, Joye wasn’t distressed. That much was clear. She moved under him, yes, but not panicked or uncomfortable or even awkwardly; just idly she wiggled her toes, and—well, not even paranoia could convince him that the soft little touches over his arm, stroking like his sleeve was ermine instead of linen, was anything other than affectionate. And Stephanivien was absolutely not paranoid—only prudent. Prudent enough to know better, to order himself to extricate himself from her embrace before anyone saw.

And stupid enough to stay there, selfish enough to enjoy her attention, and cowardly enough to be silent when she looked up into his face, realizing he was awake and seeking in his eyes—what? What was she thinking?

Before Stephanivien could answer (either her or himself), she closed her eyes—deliberately, it felt like—then actually _snuggled_ into the warmth of his body (very definitely deliberate, he thought). For almost ten seconds he didn’t dare to move, even to breathe. For a moment, the utilitarian and unbeautiful manufactory felt like a snowflake palace, out of a child’s fairy tale, a magical crystalline wonder, and if he moved it would shatter, even the warmth of his breath would melt it all away. He couldn’t risk it.

And, like the cruelest of deceptions, that magical feeling lingered, like the smell of just-cooked caramel, tempting and smoky, promising burnt lips if he dared. So Stephanivien instead pulled the aprons tighter around them, as if they could be some kind of protection, and couldn’t stop himself from falling into a light doze again; light and half-conscious, and brief as well. It couldn’t have been more than a quarter-bell before he heard voices too close, too loud—they didn’t rouse Joye but they did alert him, and he gently slid away from her and into the close air of the warming manufactory. The first shift was about to begin, and he wasn’t scheduled to be there until almost second shift, but all the same he got to work, pulling his gloves on and cracking his knuckles and pretending everything was going as planned as the first shift filed in, greeting them as if everything was normal and Joye wasn’t sound asleep on the couch between them.

At least all of them had the presence of mind to leave the loudest work for after Joye woke up on her own.

 

Two full weeks later, the incident on the couch was still on his mind. It haunted him, he might say, like a ghost, except it was far too pleasant for that and maybe his initial associations of fairy enchantments, like in children’s stories, were more on the money than he’d first thought. And it didn’t drive him to _distraction_ —he wasn’t fifteen years old anymore, spellbound by the realization of how soft a girl’s hands could be—but honestly, it was a close thing, and a good job he had blueprints and designs rather than heavy machinery to work on at present.

The other advantage of drafting work was that it could be done wherever he pleased, rolled up and taken with him, so that he could do it back at the manor as well as in his rooms or in the manufactory. His lord father might have been in an exceptionally sour mood around him of late, but he was easy enough to avoid—and even if his mother would rather he spend less time working, he knew she appreciated his presence anyhow. And there were his siblings, and, just as importantly—

“Me lordship?” Joye’s voice came from the other side of the room and even before she’d finished he’d not only looked up from the roll of paper but put his charcoal aside. “May I enter?”

“Of course, my dear,” Stephanivien said quickly, almost too quickly. “What is it?”

“Oh, I—I noticed you had been at it—” here she nodded to the half-completed plans for another sort of turret, “—for three bells, so I thought…” Joye lifted her hands and for the first time Stephanivien noticed that she was holding a tray with a glass of something iced and pink, and a plate with a few sliced figs and some cheese. He smiled widely.

“My dear, you are the most thoughtful—” she blushed brilliantly, but didn’t contradict him, “—and kindhearted lady I ever met,” he said, still grinning as he cleared a space next to his still-mostly-full coffee mug for her to put the snack.

“There… and there…” Joye said as she placed the dishes, “Now I’ll just take this, and—” Her fingers closed around the mug’s handle—and by reflex Stephanivien put his hand over hers.

“No, I’m still drinking that—” he said, trying not to be distracted by how simply and easily he couldhave closed his fingers and thumb around her wrist, her forearm. “Just let me finish, then you can…” But Joye, he realized, wasn’t letting go of the mug, and the look she was giving him, blushing still and frozen… and he trailed off, his smile finally starting to fade. Of course.

“‘m sorry, me lordship,” Joye said, voice quiet and awkward.

“No, it’s fine, my dear,” Stephanivien said, relinquishing her wrist. “My mother still isn’t convinced that the eastern brewing method is perfectly safe?” He asked, trying to brighten the mood between them.

“Her ladyship maintains she watched a spoon dissolve in it,” Joye said, almost straight-faced, doing her part in the effort to restore their earlier camaraderie, no matter how doomed it turned out to be.

“Mm. Very well…” Stephanivien nodded to her and she took the mug, placing it on her tray.

“Me lordship,” Joye said with a nod of her head, taking her leave. He watched her go, sighing when he was alone again.

 

And that, of course, was the thing in one, Stephanivien thought as he paced up and down the length of that very same room, ten bells later (the stars wheeling overhead, but just before that faint purple-grey that betokened the dawn would gather at the horizon). No matter how he felt, or how she might have felt (his arms and hands tingled with the memory), the crux of the matter was that she was a servant in his house. She could never—he could never—

He sighed again, running his fingers through his hair as he looked back at the table he’d been drafting at. Of course, now it had more balled-up paper scattered atop it, failures and mistakes, but the now-empty plate and glass had remained there; as he could but broodingly pick at the food, his mother’s micro-intrigue had wound up being a good portion of dinner as well. There was another empty plate for the other portion of his dinner, a sandwich he’d fetched (by himself) from a seller outside, and it occurred to him, with another guilty twinge, he ought get that cleaned up before Joye could see.

Without realizing it, he’d faced Joye with a bad choice earlier—the sort of choice he worked hard to never force her to make. True, in nature this was the most harmless sort, the lowest-stakes version, but the principle remained: It was not good for a maidservant to have to choose to obey either the household’s matriarch or the eldest son—and when they were in the manor together, simply there was no way around that aspect of their… relationship. Joye the machinist could and did remonstrate, doubt, question, argue and even defy (at least he hoped, with all his heart, that she did so sincerely), as any of his machinists could (and once again he hoped, with all his heart…). Joye the maidservant had less freedom, to put it lightly—and in the manor, he knew, he had as much power as he cared to take.

And it mattered not that his parents had spared no effort to bring their children up honorably (though they had), that independent of them he had his own convictions of what was decent (though he did), or—or anything else; Stephanivien thought unhappily as he piled the crumpled paper on the plates. He was the oldest son of a count, and on some level he’d always known that was a _carte blanche_ —when he was young it had been a prideful afterthought, in adolescence, an occasional expediency that quickly grew to an uncomfortable one, the more he _really_ learned what it meant to be _de Haillenarte_. The cheque wasn’t blank—simply he would never be the one ordered to pay. And if he was going to be a decent viscount, then not having some kind of romance with one of the manor’s servants was the absolute bare minimum.

It was unescapable, even in the manufactory: there was a special favor he showed her, a particular distance he kept (…barring the past fortnight _incident_ ) solely because every other time they met, he was indisputably the master. If Stephanivien had learned one thing from time with Hilda, it was that masters and servants mixing like that was catastrophic for the servant—and if he fancied himself better than that red-eyed baron, then he needed to prove it. If he cared about House Haillenarte’s reputation for dignity and fairness, if he cared about all the lowborn men and women he called his fellows in machinistry, if he cared about his own ideals and if he cared about Joye _at all_ …

Sighing, Stephanivien dumped the trash in a bin and the dishes in a sink. To be honest, if he cared about any and all of that, he needed to stop dwelling on his feelings and finish that turret. Already it looked like he wasn’t going to have it done before the tourney with Dzemael, the one he’d promised his father he’d win—and as a machinist, not a noble-born knight. If only he could approach more of his life as that man… but victory here would be that crucial first step.

 

In Ishgard, nobility had not only its privileges but as well its obligations—as a mother to her son, as a son to his mother, was how it was often spoken of. In practice, the relationship was far, _far_ more unequal than even that paternalistic metaphor—and for that matter, even the families of the supposed exemplars of Ishgard were not immune from strife and fractious, even mutinous behavior. But sometimes, it worked something like it was meant to: the Countess de Haillenarte organized a charity gala already estimated to take in tens of thousands of gil for the needy, and her eldest son (in lieu of his father, who’d taken to his bed with a fever) agreed to be her partner for the night.

“Are you planning to leave your chambers before the gala ends?” Stephanivien called through the closed doors of the master bedroom, cracking his knuckles in an attempt to distract himself from the enforced idleness formal dress meant.

“Such cheek!” Lapinette de Haillenarte called back through those doors—right before she pushed them open, her maids backing out of the way. Lapinette was a tall woman, even by elezen standards, but even in her heeled slippers she was still only slightly taller than Stephanivien’s chin. “Is that how a viscount speaks to his lady mother in this benighted age?” Imperious and unflagging, she squinted at her son, who smiled down at her.

“You look lovely, Mother,” Stephanivien said, and meant it.

“I do, don’t I?” The Countess de Haillenarte was wearing a gown the same red as her hair, trimmed in gold thread and with black fur to trim, heavy gold chain around her neck and wrists and a brooch of diamond on her breast. By comparison, Stephanivien was much less extravagant, his reds muted and black more dominant; with smaller gems on his rings—appropriate for her partner at a gala of her own creation. “The red of the rose,” she murmured approvingly as she swept a stray curl of her hair behind her ear.

“Come now, _you_ can’t afford to be fashionably late,” Stephanivien said as he offered her his arm, she took it with practiced ease.

“It was only some difficulty with my suit,” Lapinette sighed, patting at the side of her bodice with her free hand. “You know—when he married me—and on the days I laced tightest—your father could almost span my waist with his hands.” She said that with a softly pleased tone that did not mask the somewhat ritualistic nature of the remark—probably at least one Ishgardian matron said something like it once every day in the capital—but this time, Stephanivien declined the usual response of the dutiful son, and instead said:

“Do you miss it?” His tone was quiet, but sincere, as they proceeded to the foyer, and his mother responded in kind.

“…No.” She still had that softly pleased quality to her voice. “I wouldn’t trade you or your brothers and sister for anything.” Lapinette raised her head high, gaze forward. “I earned this body.”

“And of course, you are still beautiful.” That was the way a properly filial child responded to that rote reminisce by a matron—and in her turn, Lapinette laughed brightly and sincerely.

“Silly boy, I’m the more beautiful for it!” The High House of Haillenarte may have been muddling through difficult times these past few years, but its Countess had never muddled in anything and always thought it beneath her anyhow. Affectionately, she reached up to pinch what of thin Stephanivien’s cheek there was still to pinch. “Honestly, Stephan, there’s no rule that our lives _must_ be dulling and miserable…” She trailed off, then, just before the door to the ballroom, in the last moments where the crowd beyond was still just a murmur, and her expression turned delicately hopeful. “There are a few girls debuting tonight,” Lapinette said, searching his eyes. “Think about it, mm?”

“I’ll think about it, Mother,” Stephanivien promised with his own delicate smile, all too easy to arrange into one for the crowd as the doors parted and the Countess loudly announced her presence.

 

Not that she would fully believe it, but in actuality that very same topic was rarely far from Stephanivien’s mind the past few years—and over the past few moons had grown into something he dwelled on, in a strange blend of the way rueful penitents contemplated an icon and worn-out laborers nursed a bottle. The perpetual nature of the concern aided that metaphor: All his affairs in the manor circled it, circumambulated ‘round it, at differing speeds and distances to be sure—but sooner or later everything wound up being about when and whom the eldest son and heir of the Count de Haillenarte would wed. As for outside the manor… well, here it was indelicate, almost rough and vulgar (like his work, the work his mother and father hated so, the work he’d fled to as soon as he could extricate himself from the gala). In a different way this issue plagued him, everpresent as Ishgard’s pubs, taverns, wineries and brewhouses: as an old drunkard might drift towards one even as he hated himself for it, so Stephanivien’s eyes drifted towards Joye more and more the more he berated himself and reminded himself why he could not.

Losing himself in work was the best way out of the pattern of useless thoughts, which was why he’d turned to the manufactory that night (locking the door behind him before firing up the forge, almost ripping off fine gentleman’s clothes until he worked in a thin undershirt and one of some pairs of dungarees kept at the manufactory in case of emergencies), hoping it would work as planned. Ideally, the process of shaping the pieces of this new device would so require his focus and attention that he simply wouldn’t have spare brainpower to grouse over his dilemma, to daydream of fairytale solutions as fragile and improbable as snowflake palaces. But it was not to be: Instead, as he settled into a necessary rhythm for smoothly hammering identical metal domes, he found his thoughts settling into their own familiar rhythm, and himself almost helpless to stop them.

Nobility of Ishgard, particularly of the four high houses, were born to privilege and obligation alike. That was the very foundation of the social order—to abuse the power, to neglect the obligation, was to do violence to society itself, hopelessly flawed as it might be…and one of these obligations was that the heirs and heiresses of powerful bloodlines must perpetuate them.

(The steel rang like pealing bells under each blow, each swing of the hammer shaping it to one-half of a sphere, the sound of it and the forge filling his ears; lost was the sound of his panting breath and pounding heart, but even if he could drown out the noise of them the feel of that precious blood running in his veins would always be there).

Making a good match, taking a good bride and siring upon her healthy children, until the anxiety of noble perpetuation was assuaged, was not optional for him. He’d known this since he was very small, and it hadn’t sat too well with him then either—only as a child, as he hadn’t quite grasped the power of his surname, so he hadn’t grasped the significance of marriage and anyhow was free then to not think about things that made him uncomfortable. He’d had friends and acquaintances who thought the same too—Artoirel, the son of Fortemps, shared his dubiousness about this aspect of their obligations and inheritance—but even they couldn’t do anything to stop this.

And it wasn’t like the agitators and reformers with whom Stephanivien had aligned himself would save him from this. Very understandably, their interest in the plight of anyone with his level of entitlements was minimal—and besides, it wasn’t like there was a paucity of noblemen uninterested in their brides here in Ishgard, noblemen who’d rather turn their attention to performers, knights, friends and fellows, artisans, workers… their own servants.

(This one was warping and he could not save it; angrily Stephanivien threw it aside, into the scrap, then leaned back to rest a moment, pulling up his shirt to wipe the sweat and grime from his face, before returning to the slog).

And even before he’d learned of the injustice heaped on the other side of those entanglements, he’d known how poorly they could go: after all, he was the same age as Artoirel de Fortemps, and while he certainly hadn’t understood the scandal as it happened, he understood the distress, the consternation, and apparent pain. Yes, he had befriended Haurchefant the man later, but that couldn’t erase what he’d learned when the bastard boy arrived, how simply and starkly things were never the same again.

His household afforded him one vice already, Stephanivien thought as he watched the orange glow of his manufactory forge. It could not grant him a second, no matter how dearly he wished. With a sigh of resignation, he stretched and turned back to his work. He kept the forge lit through the night, its reddish glow visible through the stubborn rime on the manufactory’s windows. Outside, though, snow fell in thick, sticky flakes, covering it and all the rest of Ishgard with glittering whiteness.

 

Starting from that night, his stratagem of working to exhaustion to escape his anxieties began failing outright. Nothing could take his mind from all his worries in waking life, and no amount of training and engineering for the upcoming tournament would tire him enough that his sleep was dreamless. Dzemael machination, the increasing tension in his home, and… In summation, Stephanivien was not at his best, and he felt sure that no matter what sort of brave face he put on for Rostnsthal and Joye and all the other recruits, they could see straight through it—straight through _him_.

Yes, it was irrational, but, he thought, at least he wasn’t the only one acting so. Rostnsthal had been cagey and absentminded, for one, which he attributed to the same stress as he was under—and the residual stress from Francel’s emergency and ordeal in the Highlands was surely still taxing the entire family and the household as well. Joye, he thought, had been rattled by that—she seemed shyer and more furtive, or at least around him she did, and he tied it to hers and Francel’s similarities in age, and in both having experiences with false accusations. So, as ever, Stephanivien tried to show her bits of extra kindness—not _favoritism_ (ha!) but surely a little extra niceness wouldn’t hurt? Things like checking on her, fixing a few little things for her, being more accommodating—because even though she had very quickly become absolutely indispensable to the running of the manufactory, it wasn’t the most comfortable place for a small midlander girl.

Take, for example, today, the day before the tourney. Everyone and every tool was being worked hard—her and himself included—so if he needed her eyes to double-check the alignments of some of his ballistae… simply the fastest way was to give her the boost himself, like he’d done every other time, only this time…

This time, he was so intensely aware of her weight, of the mixed strength and softness of her hands when she gripped his shoulder to brace herself—how her braids swung and dangled, the texture of the soft cotton of her skirt against both his skin and his vest—how she slotted against his chest or shoulder naturally, not like a puzzle piece but something that tessellated, mobile, alive—and never before in his life had he been so aware that he could certainly span some women’s waists with his hands as when he helped her get back down off the last one without stumbling or snagging her skirt.

It was almost a relief to lie back on the creeper and slide it under some machinery. Usually working from underneath like this was claustrophobic and slightly off-kilter-feeling—but he welcomed that feeling today, hoping that it would prove an inhospitable environment for daydreams and reminisces of blonde hair and soft waists.

Of course he must have forgotten that the very instigation of this most recent fit of distraction was brought about on a half-ruined old couch under a pile of smelly aprons and in the chilly grey pre-dawn hours—put briefly, it didn’t help. When he rolled himself out, he was distracted as ever. So much so, in fact, that he didn’t check first—he hit Joye and knocked her straight over, with nowhere to fall but atop him.

The moment of it was at once agonizingly long and shockingly fast: Only the speed of instinct and reflex could explain how Stephanivien moved, how he reached to catch her—yet it wasn’t fast enough that he couldn’t notice _things_ , at once intensely focused and yet—

And yet somehow it was like his good sense was a separate part of him, caged and helpless to do anything other than watch in slowed time as he caught Joye before she could hit the floor, pulled her reflexively, protectively atop him, cupping his hand around her head and holding it to his chest. Her soft thighs over his lean ones, the silkiness of her hair against his fingers and the firm press of her hands at his sides—it only lasted the space of three breaths, of savoring the feeling, before—

“Me lord,” Joye said, shakily, and reason won control of him again with all the force of a dunk in fresh snowmelt.

“My—I’m so—Joye—” Stephanivien sputtered as he hesitantly relinquished her, unable to meet her eyes as she pulled back to look at him. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me…”

And to his utmost shock, she giggled. Joye did not, he had previously thought, giggle. She chuckled, she laughed—sometimes crowing with it when passion took hold of her and her pistol—but here she was. “It’s perfectly fine,” she said through her giggling, as if it _was_ , and he—

“I—beg pardon, but—” was all that he could manage before standing abruptly, leaving her still on the mechanic’s creeper. “I should leave,” Stephanivien said stiffly, then turned around before an obviously confused (possibly hurt? _gods, no_ ) Joye could ask why or where to.


	2. Absurdities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have given the Warrior of Light in this continuity the name of “Miette” (and sorely wish there was a better and more lore-compliant “default WOL name” than Meteor). I have also taken some liberties with canon heights etc as chargen is sorely limited and even moreso for NPCs. Lastly, please note that I have not yet gotten the opportunity to play the ShB MCH quest.

It had been his garrett he’d fled to, as it happened. Stephanivien was aware he was being unreasonable, but distantly, as through a glass—what he was intimately aware of were more immediate feelings, vital and visceral. So once again he’d gathered up any drafting work he had laying around and went to take a bell or more working on it somewhere to get his head back on his shoulders, back in reality.

The tournament was tomorrow. He needed—bolded and italicized and underlined-three-times _**needed**_ —to get at least a prototype of his next turret design (he had been calling it “the bishop”) functional. Yet here he was, still correcting his failures on paper, reworking his figures, still _too distracted_ to do even basic arithmetic properly, judging by these numbers. No, the bishop would not require a casing whose circumference was measured in _yalms_ , and how had he even arrived—

Oh. Oh, _that_ was how, Stephanivien realized, as he reviewed his work—wrong numbers for the dimensions, and—

And he knew exactly where they’d come from. Groaning, he let his head thump against his desk. They were _his_ —he stood at seven fulms, three and a half ilms of height, and weighed near to three hundred ponzes. And the other set, Fury have mercy on him—five fulms and five ilms was how tall Joye seemed to his draftsman’s eyes, one hundred fifty-odd ponzes how much she had seemed to weigh when he had been giving her boosts earlier, and if he remembered the _other_ train of thought (the one he’d been trying to forget) correctly…

Yes, he had been imagining what it would be like—he and she and _how_ , the manner in which such mismatched puzzles might fit together harmoniously. Was it even possible? Not in his usual high-minded concern of the past moons focused into a fixation the past weeks— but rather put plainly, honestly, crudely (and _still!_ a reflexion of the higher mind): _could_ he lay with her without hurting her?

He’d have to be careful, he concluded—and, it occurred to him suddenly, that it would have been ideal to be as they were accidentally but a bell ago: her atop him, holding tight—

Stephanivien moaned into the old beaten timber of his desk, but the sound was far too plaintive to be mistaken for that of arousal. Gods. _Gods_ , but he was a neurotic wreck, and at the singular worst moment to be. Could he even aim straight like this, let alone put paid to one of Ishgard’s most elite battalions? This… _issue_ needed fixing, but he was out of ideas, and nothing he had tried had worked—and madness was defined as repeating something over and over again while expecting different… results…

He jerked his head up, eyes wide, then leaned back in his chair, still staring at nothing, and he remained so poleaxed for almost a full minute before he burst into laughter. Loud and genuine and more-than-a-little-mad laughter, like he hadn’t laughed in weeks and he _hadn’t_ , not like this, not so freely, not so liberated by absurdity.

Stephanivien had tried everything else, so all that remained… was to tell her. Simple as that, he thought and instantly began laughing again. As if anything in this whole city and whole peerage and whole industry were at all simple—but it would be the _fastest_ way to be disabused of foolish notions, the odds were. Though when he _did_ ask—Fury, he would have to think of the how of it too, and therein be far, far more than careful, to ensure it was understood as confession, not instruction—maybe after the tournament? In the event that they won, at least. There would surely be some kind of celebration of such a miracle, and a moment could present itself…

Newly energized, Stephanivien flung himself once more into that work, and for the first time in moons actually, properly completed it.

 

Places, like people, have a character to them. They have intent and purpose, and can themselves be company, a comfort in trying circumstances, security and protection—or they can threaten, alarm, or forebode, be a source of pain, a reminder of cruelty. Or, sometimes, they can just be… out of character.

Perhaps this was why Skysteel Manufactory turned so strange as the sun drew down to the horizon, the evening before the tourney with Dzemael. It was a home for workers and artisans and what soldiers it had managed to train were still painfully green. It was never meant to house a company of soldiers anxiously awaiting tomorrow’s (mock) battle, not before Stephanivien took over and certainly not afterwards. If it had been a deadline that loomed tomorrow, it would have bustled in an increasingly frenetic pace—everyone there knew what that meant and what to do; indeed half of Stephanivien’s men did their best work in suchcircumstances. But instead, as the light grew golden the work slowed and the chatter grew more sober before it died out altogether. Men and women brooded and paced, and despite the general slowing of the pace grew not lax in their work but more intent and fastidious than ever—triple-checking, re-evaluating, over and over and over and finally Stephanivien announced everyone was dismissed right then. No sense in torturing them with the waiting, the agony of waiting, even before a mock battle. He knew how much of a torment it was.

And so began the strangest hours of all for the manufactory: those without a purpose, those in limbo. For even the redirected purpose of martial readiness, unusual and uncomfortable as it was, was still a purpose. Now? Now it was going into an uneasy hibernation, a sleep to see a dawn that only Halone and the other gods might know the nature of. And Stephanivien, entrusted with the quiet task of tucking his manufactory into bed, was in much the same strange way.

The promise—that foolhardy promise he’d made to his father, and then repeated to Lord Tedalgrinche, wouldn’t leave the front of his thoughts. If he lost the tourney after such confident proclamations—well, he’d lost all justification to pursue the vice of machinistry. And, as he half-heartedly put the manufactory to order for the night, he couldn’t stop thinking of what might happen if he were—as every bookie in Ishgard, Rostnsthal had mentioned, was confident would happen—shamed by Dzemael’s prowess. Humiliated, yes, and not just him this time—but his family entire, and even worse than that: all his men and women of Skysteel, who’d poured their heart and souls into making the manufactory the jewel of modern technology in Ishgard, of equitable work and fair treatment… Fury, it didn’t bear thinking about but Stephanivien forced himself to do so all the same, as he forged one last round of rounds, ready for his revolver tomorrow. In his pride, as the Count’s son, he’d once again behaved as a Count’s son—boldly written a cheque that, if luck was against him, he’d default on, forcing his workers to pay the balance…

“I am a fool,” he proclaimed to no one but himself, half drowned out by the noise of bellows and fire. And honestly but it cheered him—maybe it was just that it was joined with the sight of a full round of perfectly regular ammunition, steam still wafting off the newest two. Perhaps it was the conjunction of truth and perfection: He was a fool, and a singularly brilliant one. His creations—his work, his _life_ in microcosm—were sometimes such beautiful things… “The most foolish man who ever lived,” Stephanivien continued, now with a lopsided smile on his face, at last banking the flames and closing up this last bit of work in Skysteel. He’d load this last round—perhaps the last round he’d ever cast—in his firearm for tomorrow.Maybe it would be good luck? A closure, a dignified end, if not.

Snow was piling up on the windowsills outside—the cold of everwinter was ever waiting to close in on Ishgard, whenever a flame went out—but the inside, near the core, was still boiling hot. Absently Stephanivien pulled his apron half-off, let it dangle from where it was tied at his waist, loosened his already-open shirt even more—even as the air cooled; it was not entirely unpleasant a feeling to be able and willing to _welcome_ that waiting chill. In a way, it was reassuring. A little cold, a little darkness, was not the end of him, and it wouldn’t be the end of his wishes and dreams, of his manufactory.

—Though, he belatedly realized, his manufactory was once again the end of yet another of his shirts. This one had somehow managed to be burnt straight through in the collar, never minding the spots of grease and grime in the sleeves—had they been ground straight through? With a small grimace, Stephanivien pulled the shirt off entirely to better inspect it for the possibility that it might be salvaged. Maybe if the body of it were still whole—and his tailor still had some of that bolt of rainbow cotton, to fashion new sleeves, a new collar…

And thus was he found by Joye, come back for some mislaid possession or another—at least she must have been, but instead of looking for it just stood in the doorway, watching him, with increasingly red cheeks, until Stephanivien saw her.

“—Oh! Joye—!” While he managed to squash the embarrassing urge to cover himself like some kind of scandalized maiden, Stephanivien still pulled his shirt back over his shoulders. “Didn’t realize—uh—I thought you had already left.”

“I had, me lord,” Joye said, after a bit of a worrying pause—as though she’d needed reminding of such a simple fact. Through his professional expression, concern flickered behind his eyes as he noticed furthermore that she seemed unable to meet his gaze. “But—I forgot…” Once again, that trailing-off. What could have so occupied her attent—

…Ah, of course. Obviously. Stephanivien brow smoothed, and he smiled kindly at her. Anxiety over tomorrow would naturally find many ways to express itself, as he knew well.

“My dear,” he said, approaching her before bending low, even taking a knee, to get close to her level, “you needn’t worry so. It’ll all work out.” And maybe it was just as absurd and foolish as his laughing fit earlier, but for the first time in a long time his brave face didn’t feel like a rictus, or some other poor-taste joke.

“M-me lord…” Yet despite this, Joye didn’t seem any more comforted by it. She’d turned her face away from him entirely, and was so flushed that—he had half-way reached to see if she was feverish before he stopped himself, fingers hesitantly curling back towards his palm.

“What is it, dear?” Now his voice was hushed and quiet and he’d dropped the brave face entirely.

“I forgot that—I wanted to tell you something,” Joye said, taking in a deep breath and—this time he didn’t stop himself, couldn’t bear to; Stephanivien pushed her hair aside to confirm her eyes were suspiciously shiny (she squeezed them shut against his prying, he pulled away).

“Yes?” She didn’t respond to that gentle prompt at first, until all at once—

“Me lord, I only wanted—I want to tell you you’re the finest Ishgard has and—and I’ve never wanted anything more than to work with you here—here, as a machinist but… but…”

Because she sounded so close to tears, of course Stephanivien’s first instinct was to comfort her: He smiled and held his arms wide, a throwback to how he had welcomed her into the manufactory. “Never fear, my dear! I have every confidence that tomorrow when we take the field, we will seize victory fully and completely! And you—” He drew in breath to continue but thought better of it—then disregarded his doubt. “—You will be instrumental to this. Myself, Rostnsthal, Miette—and _you_. Joye…” This time he did reach for her face, and with feather-light touch turned it towards him. “Together, we can...”

Her eyes still squeezed shut, Joye nodded vigorously—then gasped in a breath as she turned from him, fled the manufactory—not entirely unlike how he had earlier, needing to calm himself. And so, he let her go.

 

The next night, when he came back to his rooms after winning the tournament, after the celebration at the manufactory, after hearing such unexpected, unwelcome news from his father, Stephanivien drunk himself to sleep for the first time in almost five years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “but puk, shadowbringers changed mch completely and none of the turrets function like they used to and—“
> 
> shhhh


	3. Reflections

When Joye first saw Lord Tedalgrinche of Dzemael, her first instinctual thought was that a mirror had been held before his lordship Stephanivien. It was a notion that vanished quickly—Tedalgrinche being shorter, his hair cut differently, and his skin a shade lighter, to start—even before he opened his mouth to speak. And even before _that_ , there had been something behind his bonier features, his hooded eyes and elegant brows, that spoke for him just two words: _Run away_.

And she did not, but watched his approach to their party as tensely as she dared, an emotion that at least was mirrored by his lordship Stephanivien and his lord father the Count.

“I _thought_ I heard the terrible din of cannons being fired—” He had a lazy, nasal drawl of a voice, imprecise in a precisely aristocratic way, that flowed from his mouth as contemptuously as his gaze flowed over them, from the Count “And what do I hasten out here to find but the highborn Haillenartes—” to his lordship “frolicking in the snow with their lowborn lackeys.” And at last to her.

He smiled at her as he said it, or rather his lips parted and curved up as he put an obscene emphasis upon “frolicking,” and the way he looked at her…

Joye was not unfamiliar with the unkindness of men, but this was different. She’d been looked at like an expenditure, like a slave, like livestock, like meat, like a tool, like an obstacle… even looked through like she didn’t exist. But this man looked through her not as though she weren’t there—but as though she were a _lens_ , and the figure he saw magnified was none other than—

“Tedalgrinche.” Barely had the knight finished his sentence before his lordship had stepped in front of Joye, shoulders back and back ramrod-straight. Tedalgrinche was blocked from Joye’s view, which was probably for the best as her reaction to that name being attached to that man might have… provoked him.

Joye had never seen Tedalgrinche before now, but she’d heard his name many a time in her years at the Haillenarte Manor, and not once had it been in a positive way. Indeed, most of the time it was prefixed with “that swiving—”, except when her ladyship the countess had reason to speak it. (Most of the time). Francel was frightened of him, Laniaitte thought him an honorless cur, Aurvael railed against his bigoted condescension, and as Stephanivien would have it he perfectly embodied everything wrong with Ishgardian nobility, down to his fashion sense. And Joye wasn’t sure of that extent—but she knew danger when she saw it, and he was _dangerous_.

“After providing you with this opportunity to improve the ailing reputation of your noble house,” Tedalgrinche continued, as if his lordship hadn’t spoken at all, “does the consideration of House Dzemael not merit a formal reply?”

His lordship the Count stepped in then, and Joye would not have been ashamed to admit that his protection, with Stephanivien’s, was a comfort. For it was obvious to her that despite his tone, what Tedalgrinche had been looking for wasn’t formalities or pleasantries: He’d wanted an _opportunity_ , and having been denied the pleasure of humiliating House Haillenarte in battle, was coming to see what other _opportunities_ were there for the seizing.

Or—

“—If only your dear son was as ardent with his knightly training as he is with his idle tinkering.” Tedalgrinche’s head was held high and his teeth sharply exposed in the smile that “idle tinkering” forced his thin lips into. “A pity.”

Of course his lordship jumped for the bait before anyone could discourage him—he almost looked willing to jump Tedalgrinche right there, the knight’s remarks about his manners aside, and still he kept himself between her and Tedalgrinche. With the knight’s heartless, evaluating gaze diverted from her, Joye had space to breathe, to think—to remember that morning just a few days ago.

And that if she wanted, his lordship would make sure she was safe.

Joye could feel her cheeks heating—but fortunately Tedalgrinche was leaving now, and instead his lordship and the Count were heatedly discussing a tournament… in which his lordship was planning to enter the machinists. Something curled in her belly at that—a mixture of fear and promise, curved like Tedalgrinche’s wicked smirk, and it didn’t go away all through the return to the manufactory. It grew and grew, until Joye couldn’t help it anymore:

“Me lordship, if I may…” He was in the midst of planning for the machinists’ next showing, with Miette and Rostnsthal, but even so immediately turned his attention to her. “It seems like Lord Tedalgrinche has a dislike for commoners such as me. If…” she hesitated, but for a moment, “if me presence’ll cause you more trouble, then maybe I should quit the manufactory…” And there, it was said. His lordship would keep her safe—but if, by this, Joye could keep _him_ safe—deprive Tedalgrinche of another way to strike at him…

“Pay no mind to that preenin’ fop, lass.” Rostnsthal spoke before Stephanivien could, to Joye’s surprise. “‘E’s all piss ‘n wind.”

And more surprising still was his lordship’s immediate agreement. “Aye, ever has Tedalgrinche sought to needle me in such a manner. It’s not you, my dear, that he despises—instead ‘tis the mingling of highborn and lowborn.” Joye knew it was true from what she’d overheard of his lordship in particular’s complaints about the man—but still something in her rebelled, something curved and twisted…

“If you truly wish to please me—” He had bent and slouched a bit as he spoke—as he often did around those shorter than he (which was most of Ishgard); she knew he did it to seem less intimidating, less threatening, “—then I would have you shine your brightest in the tourney and wipe that arrogant smirk from his face!” His lordship beamed at her as he finished, but Joye could only offer him a hesitant, worried smile, one she feared he was liable to mistake for modesty.

This had nothing to do with _pleasing_ him, and everything to do with protecting him.

 

With his lordship’s commitment to the tourney so confirmed, everyone at the manufactory was working overtime and Joye was no exception. Furthermore, her ladyship the Countess was finally ready to throw that gala she’d been planning, so both manor and manufactory were a flurry of activity unceasing. At least, Joye thought, at least she was making coin at a near-unprecedented pace—and at least she was so tired that her sleep came easily and dreamlessly. Lying awake, mooning and moping, would help no one (least of all her), and her dreams…

It wasn’t nightmares that concerned her lately. Those were past, and she was glad of it—rather, it was pleasant dreams, dreams too sweet for her or really any maiden of her station and especially her circumstances. Tempting, like any sugary confection—and doomed to crumble and dissolve when faced with any pressure more strenuous than a gentle caress, let alone the kind of pressure Ishgard put on its people.

And besides, it’s more than a little awkward to dream of a certain man undressing you when part of your job is to fit his mother into her gown for the gala.

“Joye, darling—” Her ladyship the Countess de Haillenarte sounded a bit strained, but determined: “I’m fine. Pull tighter.”

Very few people ever saw her in quite this state—not even her husband. Lapinette, Joye knew, was a master of the art of keeping up appearances, and part of maintaining the illusion of always being put together was being very choosy in whom you allowed to witness the assembly process. Right now, she was only dressed in what she called her “unders,” what a foolish layperson might call “smallclothes,” and what was really most honestly described as a sort of scaffolding, over which she would build her beauty and none of which would be visible by the time his lordship arrived to escort her to the ballroom.

Hopefully. Because no matter where and how hard Joye tugged, she wasn’t finding any more give that this corset could take advantage of. “Milady, I fear it won’t take another ilm. Shall I—”

“No, no,” her ladyship said, waving Joye aside. “Let me stretch out a bit, then…” Cautiously she stepped away, experimentally pushing at the garment’s confinement.

Automatically folding her hands in front of her, Joye averted her eyes. “Shall I check on his lordship the Count’s supper? It ought to be ready by now.”

“Amelia can worry about that,” her ladyship said dismissively, still twisting as much she could, giving her reflection in her vanity’s mirror a stern and searching look. “Poor dear hardly has an appetite, anyhow.”

“Yes, milady.”

“Though—Joye, darling, have you seen my son?” The Countess worried her lip. “I’d rather not have to send a courier if—ugh—if he’s distracted himself yet again—”

“Ah—he’s already here, milady!” Joye said, pitching her voice higher and brighter to be heard over the creaking of the corset’s boning as her ladyship adjusted it yet more. “I saw him before I arrived, and he didn’t have any machines or devices anywhere near him!”

“That’s a relief,” her ladyship muttered, then continued, “and he was dressed already, yes? Smart and handsome?”

“Yes, milady,” Joye said. “Very handsome tonight.”

And she had only meant it to be a bland reassurance to her ladyship, an agreement without consequence—but something crept into her voice. Some notes too rich, some lingering long and winsome—Joye shut her mouth and tried her best not to tense overmuch.

For her part, Lapinette merely glanced over at her, brief and unhurried and for a moment Joye thought that maybe she hadn’t heard. Then: “My son is a beauty, isn’t he?”

Despite the fact that all Lapinette was holding was a brush in one hand and rouge in the other, Joye had the distinct sense she was under threat. “Yes, milady.” This time she was very careful with her tone.

“I can’t understand why— _why_ he doesn’t have any real prospects…” her ladyship muttered and despite the force with which she was applying the aforementioned rouge Joye breathed easier. “Surely our reputation has not fallen _that_ far…?”

“It hasn’t, milady,” Joye said, earnestly.

“Any lady with a pedigree should be twice as proud as I’ll be to walk into that ballroom with him on my arm.”

“Absolutely, milady.”

Her ladyship pursed her lips at the mirror, judged her rouge to be satisfactorily refreshed—then pushed herself up and into a twist in one motion, accompanied by a very loud _crack-POP_!

“Milady—!” Joye exclaimed, but she was loudly sighing with relief and delight.

“ _There_ it goes! Honestly, Joye, whatever you do, don’t _age_. Wreaks havoc with the spine. Now, hurry—” she beckoned her maid over, gesturing at her back. “The laces…”

“Yes, milady!” Just as her ladyship has suspected, now she could (somehow) find just enough give to pull the laces that precious ilm tighter.

“At _last_ ,” Lapinette sighed. “Fetch the gown, Joye, darling.”

And with wordless obedience she did so—but was met with her ladyship’s pensive, examining gaze when she’d brought it to her. Before she could ask, though, her ladyship asked her: “Joye, darling—be honest. Can you think of a reason why my foolish, lovely boy can’t find himself a bride?”

It took far too long for Joye to begin to answer—and even then it felt like she was watching herself give this answer to the Countess de Haillenarte, from a stupefied distance. “Well, milady… His lordship the viscount has never been a conventional sort. Perhaps he has… other priorities? Regarding brides, that is?”

“What sort of ‘other priorities,’ darling?” Lapinette was squinting skeptically at her, but her body language at least was gracious as she stepped into the gown and let Joye pull it up.

“Well, milady,” Joye said, her breath and voice wavering, “You know that he is reform-minded. Isn’t it possible this extends to marriage?”

Lapinette sighed heavily. “Halone have mercy on me. You don’t mean—he can’t be holding out for—” She couldn’t bring herself to go on.

“The L-word?” Joye tentatively volunteered, knowing full well how much her ladyship preferred that euphemism. “Well, milady…”

Lapinette sighed so forcefully her bustle rattled. “If he wants to fall so badly, you would _think_ he’d at least show interest in introductions.”

“I would, milady,” Joye said as she finished draping the gown properly, kneeling to ensure its hems hung aright, not caught on any petticoats.

“Impossible child of mine. Is it all well down there, Joye, darling?”

“All well, milady!” Joye straightened up, dusting off the front of her apron.

“Wonderful.” Her ladyship turned a quick spin, and her smile was almost girlish. “Darling, take the rest of the night off. Julie and Marisse shall handle the remainder.”

“Much obliged, milady.” Joye bowed. “Perhaps they’ll have some idea what to do about his lordship?”

Lapinette let out a cackling laugh. “If I asked, they’d take it as an invitation to volunteer themselves.”

Joye smiled to herself, small yet daring. “They would at that, milady.”

 

The Countess probably hoped that Joye would spend her evening off at some kind of entertainment, just as her ladyship herself was at a ball—or even just enjoying a nice treat, maybe a mousse or a pavlova. …Instead, Joye went directly to bed, not even bothering to eat dinner at all. The prospect of uninterrupted sleep outweighed silly concerns like hunger.

She woke in the very early hours of the morning: just before dawn, when the eastern sky was delicate pink over the blue snowy mountains, lavender pierced by the dark spires of the city. This was the last quiet time in Ishgard—soon the birds would awaken and start their crowing and calling, and the working men and women would rouse themselves and get to business, the coming and going of it, the chatter and bustle and noise of it. And it wasn’t, strictly speaking, _unusual_ for Joye to be awake at this time of day—but it was unusual for her to be awake without an alarm or knock on her door, and without an obligation to be at work right away. She found that she liked it.

As quietly as she could, so as not to wake her father, Joye dressed, washed her face, and crept downstairs and out the door. Right now, a walk in the stillness sounded wonderful, a chance to think, a chance to watch the colors of the sunrise. Perhaps after, she could go see the stained glass in the dawn’s light, or buy tea and bread and jam, or feed some kitchen scraps to the chocobos, before she returned to handle chores at home—all peaceful bordering on idyllic.

As she walked along the streets and avenues of Ishgard, Joye remained silent, concerning herself solely and exclusively with the little things. Whenever she caught her mind wandering to the matter of the tournament, or wondering how her ladyship’s gala had gone last night, or Lord Tedalgrinche, she forced herself to another, smaller matter: a wisp of cloud shaped like a hat, a trio of old women hanging out their laundry while they chatted, how her breath swelled in a visible puff, the pattern of cracks in the paving-stones under her feet. In this way, even awake and walking down Ishgard’s streets as the capital itself awoke, Joye still rested.

Yet without a destination in mind, her feet wandered where they would, and she was surprised to find they’d wandered in the direction of Skysteel Manufactory. And before she could turn her feet towards the bakeries, patisseries, tea houses and chocolatiers, Joye noticed that the fires and furnaces inside were lit, and so brightly that it suggested they had never been put out last night. Which itself had to suggest…

With one quiet sigh, Joye entered the manufactory, and there he was: Viscount Stephanivien Cedrepierre Gaspard de Haillenarte, sprawled at a workbench, snoring, with a pile of scraps and wires to one side, and a motley assortment of pliers and little hammers to the other. He was still in his apron and gloves—he hadn’t meant to fall asleep, probably, he just _had_. So… gently, she tapped his shoulder—then again, harder, and stepped back when he stirred.

“Hm? Oh—nngh…” his lordship was groaning as he roused himself, obviously stiff and sore, blinking in confusion as he turned his face to her. “Joye? …You shouldn’t be…”

“Neither should you, me lordship,” Joye said softly. After a moment, he finished reorienting himself and made an expression, lips pursed and eyebrows raised, that suggested concession. “I saw the fires, and—well, I thought I’d find you.”

Now that she had, Joye was realizing, she hadn’t had much of a plan at all, beyond seeing if he were here and well, and now that he was… What was she doing?

Which, actually, was what his lordship was asking her just then. She started guiltily. “Seeing—I went to see Ishgard, me lordship.”

“You see Ishgard every day.” This was true.

“It’s pretty today, though.” She looked to one of the manufactory’s windows as she spoke, trusting his lordship to follow her gaze. Outside the sun was finally peeking above the horizon, and the snow piled outside was no longer blue or even purple but glowing pink and gold, like the bellies of the clouds—the sky didn’t burn, like it did in sunsets, but gently took its colors, like it was a canvas being dyed rather than painted. With sunup, all the birds had begun their songs in earnest, and the sounds of people—their low voices and their vehicles, tools, and otherwise—provided rhythm and harmony. And that was just from a single window.

“So it is, my dear,” his lordship agreed. And Joye had an idea.

“If—I was going to have tea and biscuits, I thought, once the shop opened.”

“Which shop?” He stretched as he spoke, but despite this didn’t seem interested in resuming whatever work he’d been doing before.

“Just a little stand, right before the markets. You can have a little breakfast and watch the criers set up their wares.” Joye shifted her weight from right to left and back, a little nervously.

“It sounds pleasant—”

“Would me lordship care to come with?” It came out rather in a rush, like custard from a piping bag squeezed too hard, and Joye’s face went hot as she finished. His lordship looked surprised for a moment, then his expression softened.

“Only if you’ll just call me by my name, my dear.” Now his smile was roguish. “No lordships would be caught dead dressed like this in the Crozier.”

“Yes, me—” Joye stopped herself. “…Yes.”

He laughed, then pulled on a coat. “One last lazy morning, before the rush, my dear.”

 

The day before the tournament was all hustle and bustle in the manufactory. The stress seemed to be getting to everyone, especially his lordship, which on the one hand was a sign (and therefore a reassurance) that he would overlook nothing and prepare for everything—yet on the other hand he might send himself into a nervous breakdown if he wasn’t careful. Already he’d packed up for drafting after a near miss accident, and Joye could only hope that he’d find some kind of a happy medium.

Meanwhile, she had her own reason to take her leave of the manufactory that afternoon:

“Work? Real, paying work?” Joye repeated, more shocked than delighted.

“Real work! A builder at Falcon’s Nest, says me hands should be fine to assist him with thatching and he’ll pay me seventy-five gil a day!” Her father was beaming brilliantly at her, his old face crinkled up with happiness and color in his cheeks, and all Joye wanted was to share in his happiness.

“I never thought—thatching would pay so much…” She was trying so hard not to sound hesitant, or cruel, but—but the fact was, this would not be the first time her old pa had been promised the moon only to be left with moldering cheese. And seventy-five gil a day… “What exactly did he say he’d be having you do?” …it sounded too good to be true, which meant it almost certainly was.

“Ah, girl, I know what you’re thinking,” her father said, winking at her and not seeming in the least deflated (which was either an auspicious sign or a very bad one). “It’s some devious swindler, eh? Well! Would a swindler be wearing High House colors?”

“What?” That was honestly a surprise.

“Aye, he’s legitimate and law-abiding!” Eagerly, her father tugged at her sleeve. “Come on, I can introduce you and you’ll see for yourself!”

With a call to Rostnsthal for a break (that he easily granted), Joye let her father pull her down the street and towards the chocobo stables, talking quickly about the prospects. But for Joye, it felt like more than that. Logically she knew his grip was weak, and his pace slow and uneven, but it really did feel like it did before his accident, before he got sick, when a new job was exciting and meant a proper dessert after dinner that night, not something that she would have to examine for hidden costs, hidden barbs, hidden traps for a desperate old man. And that feeling was enough to keep her daring to hope, all the way to Falcon’s Nest, where they met with the man who’d offered the thatching job.

Her father had been correct: It was High House livery he had been wearing. Specifically the rook of House Dzemael.

Wariness began to build in Joye, but she sternly tamped it back down. Tedalgrinche was but one member of the house, not even one of the most important ones. And besides, of course it’d be House Dzemael in charge of such serious reconstruction. She had no reason to be paranoid. Indeed, the petitioner was quite able to answer her every question satisfactorily, and without any hint that he found it tiresome or concerning.

“If you’d be interested, miss, we’ve a position you might could fill…?” And he was charming as he tried to recruit, but—

“Ah, I’m already employed, ser!” And she certainly wouldn’t dream of deserting his lordship in his hour of need, no matter how much gil this man dangled in front of her.

“More’s the shame, miss, but—” With one last try of his dashing smile, he pointed to a door behind him, “at least speak to the chief? Perhaps if you could refer a neighbor to him, there’d be something in it for you…?”

Because that was harmless and a safe exit to a conversation that was growing uncomfortable, Joye agreed, and left her father to finish signing his name on the papers. Once inside, she found herself blinking to adjust from the difference—a rare sunny day in Coerthas, to a darkened room—and honestly at first did not believe her eyes when the figure before her resolved into Lord Tedalgrinche.

“ _Finally_ ,” he muttered, and before Joye could find her wits again he’d grabbed her shoulder, ungently—acting on instinct, her blood suddenly roaring in her ears she wrenched free and backed away.

“What is this?! What do you want?” That same instinct sent her shooting hand to her hip, where—she had no pistol, having left it at the manufactory, and even if she did…

Even if she did, she realized, it wouldn’t do her any _good_. Slowly reason was winning hold of her again, and—

“Fury, what a snarling cur,” Tedalgrinche was saying (and Joye was not yet rational enough not to be offended at how his tone wasn’t intimidated or even wary but simply _annoyed_ ), and once again he reached for her shoulder. “Why he wants you, I shall never understand.”

Joye backed away, for a few seconds out of his reach, breathing heavily through her nose. Behind her was the doorhandle, she grabbed hold of it and squeezed as if it were a pistol stock—not that either could save her, just then. Lord Tedalgrinche, reason and sanity and _self-preservation_ reminded her, was of Dzemael—not quite a peer of his lordship Stephanivien, but near to it. And Fury but she should probably be _grateful_ she had left her pistol back in the manufactory, there simply _wasn’t_ an outcome of shooting him that left her better off. Not even his lordship could protect her from those consequences—or from—

“Don’t touch me,” she warned Tedalgrinche with a hateful glare.

He merely rolled his eyes, muttered “Fury,” and called her bluff. Once again, Tedalgrinche grabbed her shoulder, and Joye jerked against his grip without breaking it, pushed at his arm with a portion of her strength—fantasized about putting her knee in his groin, crushing her heeled boot through his toes, smashing her forehead against his nose—but did not, _could not_. No matter how much he deserved it—if she hurt him, it was her word against his, and he was _Dzemael_ , and she was shaking with the force of her anger as Tedalgrinche hauled her forwards, pushing her so that her back rested against his front.

“Unhand me,” Joye said, sounding like the snarling cur he’d accused her of being.

“All in good time,” Tedalgrinche said, in that hateful, preening voice of his—and then pushed the door open, still holding her captive.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.” Joye by now was almost as annoyed with his crypticness as he was with her station, and just as she was weighing her chances of breaking free, making a clean getaway—

Tedalgrinche gave a signal to his man in livery, and suddenly two Dzemael knights put a sack over her father’s head and wrestled him to the ground.

Joye _screamed_.

She shouted, howled, pulled against Tedalgrinche with all her strength but it was not enough to break his grip, now that he was taking her seriously. He hauled them both back into that dark room before Joye finally managed to twist free, putting her back to the wall, with her hands curled into fists. “Let him _go_!”

Tedalgrinche didn’t answer her. He didn’t say a word, only watched her with a self-satisfied air…

No, Joye realized, with a lurch in her stomach. He wasn’t watching _her_ —oh, his gaze might be cast in her direction, but he didn’t _see_ her. He saw through her like glass, he used her like a lens, just as he had when he first met her—and just like then, what he focused on was…

“As I said, I shall never understand what the king of the commoners sees in a beast like you—but nevertheless, he sees _some_ thing.” Tedalgrinche narrowed his eyes at her, as if _she, herself_ was some kind of flaw in his glass. Joye wanted to throw up.

“What do you want?” This time her voice was thick with misery.

Tedalgrinche smirked. “Listen closely…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe I am losing control of this story. Hm.


	4. Perspectives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is I guess now a fix-it for real...?

Stephanivien’s very first thoughts, that morning, were that he could not do this again. Following came a long, pained groan as he gingerly pushed himself up in his bed, eyes tightly shut against both the searing light of early morning and his mounting nausea. Everything hurt—so much so that for a solid five seconds he wavered halfway between sitting and flopping back down, afraid of the pain of exertion in the case of the former and the consequences of a bellyflop in his present condition in the latter. Finally, though, with one sustained push and gritted teeth, he lurched not only upright but to his feet, as ready as he’d ever be to face the absolute _hash_ that today promised to be.

Sometimes, overindulging had its oft-advertised effect of allowing one to forget their troubles, even if only in unconsciousness. Not this time—no amount of wine had managed to wipe away or even distort the reason he’d drunk, haunting him even into his dreams and now the morning after. Joye was gone.

No, not like that—Fury, it sounded like she was dead and she _wasn’t_ , she was fine, he furiously reminded himself as he staggered into the privy. She was probably better than fine, even, Stephanivien considered while forcibly swallowing down a cocktail of miserable emotion, bile stuck in his throat. After all, she was now happily married after—happily enough that she didn’t need to say goodbye.

He couldn’t stop himself from starting to wonder who the groom was. Clearly no one he knew—which itself was a fresh stab of pain and guilt: he’d thought himself and Joye close enough that she’d share such a thing. Instead, here he was, caught totally off-guard by the news, and …not coping well. With a long sigh, Stephanivien refastened his clothes and considered going back to sleep. Maybe _this_ time, he’d have better dreams, or better yet dreamless, restful sleep… but no, madness was doing the same damn thing but expecting different results, hadn’t he just recently reminded himself of that?

Coffee. Coffee would help. And then he’d find his father and _move on_. If he really loved her, then he must ensure her happiness, no matter where or how or with whom she found it.

 

His father seemed to have handled last night much more gracefully than he had, judging by how he whistled as he tended to the Countess’s little hothouse fruit garden. “Good morning, Stephanivien.” Count Baurendouin glanced up from the miniature ornamental plum he was pruning. “You look a fright.”

“My head hurts too much,” Stephanivien said, and did not specify if he meant for proper dressing, for shaving, for hair brushing, or for sardonic, laconic remarks.

“Indeed,” said his father, and would have resumed his gardening had not Stephanivien stepped forward, looming between him and the sun.

“What happened yesterday?” Likely he shouldn’t be so blunt with his father, given …everything. “When Joye resigned.” Too bad.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what happened?” Stephanivien spoke with a plain stubbornness in his voice that, while often present, was rarely at the forefront. “Tell me everything.”

Baurendouin sighed. “My son, there is very little for me to tell. I was in my office. She asked to see me. When I granted her entry, she quickly presented the situation and announced she would resign from both the manor and the manufactory, effective immediately, and left as soon as she could.” He had the grace not to remark on Stephanivien’s muttered curse in response to that.

“How did—You said she left quickly. Did she seem… happy?” Gods damn this infernal, bright hothouse—it was swiftly bringing his headache back to full strength.

Baurendouin arched one eyebrow. “Stephan—”

“Did she?” he insisted. “Or… was she sad, or upset, or—”

“Stephan, she was short and to-the-point—and honestly, I myself was so surprised by it, and it ended so quickly, I don’t have the clearest recollection of the details.” Baurendouin didn’t seem wholly without sympathy for his eldest—but his tone had finality in it.

“Fine. What else—or at all—do you remember?”

With both eyebrows raised, the Count asked “Is this a formal interrogation?”

Stephanivien drew in breath sharply, opened his mouth to speak—then ground his face in the heel of his hand. “Father. Please.” He sighed, almost shuddering. “Please.”

After a moment of consideration, Baurendouin chose to have mercy on his eldest. “She was not happy,” he said, with the most confidence—then looked aside, eyes focused on nothing Stephanivien could see, obviously trying to remember. “But nor—She was not distressed. I would have acted on distress. Mostly she was… withdrawn. I thought she was just shy, or that it might have been a whirlwind romance.”

With a heroic effort, Stephanivien stifled a pained groan, thinking as hard as he was able. If she _wasn’t_ happy—but then, quiet and shy was normal for her, within the manor walls…

“My son,” the Count said, very gently (especially for him), “what do you plan to do with this information?”

“Oh,” Stephanivien said, “oh, I—what I said yesterday.”

His father, unconvinced, raised an eyebrow at him. “Offering jobs to her and him alike?” And even though this would be in contravention of that precious Ishgardian tradition that the Count held so dear, somehow Stephanivien could tell that was not the reason for the reproach in his father’s voice and gaze.

And his father was _right_ , damn him. That offer of employment was a blatant cover for what he really wanted: to see Joye again, to have her around him and with him, no matter if it were indecorous—because _that, itself_ , even was the cover for what he really wanted and what he could not—never could—have. Even if she wanted as badly as he did… It simply couldn’t be, any more than he could trade the stone spires of Ishgard for snowflake palaces.

He had planned to come here to move on. It seemed he was as bad at that as anything.

“Come to my office,” Baurendouin said, evidently gleaning some meaning from his son’s prolonged silence. “There is something I think you should see.”

 

When Stephanivien began supervising Skysteel Manufactory upon his majority—not by appointment, really mostly by starting to do it and silently daring his father to try and stop him—even as used as he was to being the subject of scandalized gossip, the reaction was wearing and wearying. Especially because this time, Tedalgrinche de Dzemael had seen fit to participate in earnest.

A few years older than him, a few more places removed from power, and significantly wealthier and more respectable, Lord Tedalgrinche had never been fond of Viscount Stephanivien, and this sentiment was mutual. When he was a boy he had wondered at the wherefores of it, and eventually he concluded that it had a lot of Tedalgrinche resenting being lower-ranked than someone who cared less and was less suited to being a future patriarch of a High House. For a while, in childish pique, he’d entertained the notion that Tedalgrinche was merely jealous, but the passing years had disabused him of that notion. It wasn’t so much that Tedalgrinche wanted what Stephanivien had but that he didn’t want Stephanivien to have at all.

That, and he was simply an appalling, vicious, _evil_ man.

“The king of the commoners, surveying his realm?” Think of the drakes and they shall appear. Stephanivien sighed with irritation.

“Don’t you have someone else to waste your time with?” He didn’t bother giving the knight the acknowledgement of even a turned head, keeping his attention on notes he was taking on exterior of Skysteel Manufactory. Repairs needed to be ordered, but… while he was at it, there was the potential for additions, and—

“As surely as you’re wasting your time slumming,” Tedalgrinche drawled, and Stephanivien rolled his eyes. “But I had news, and I thought even _your_ blunt ears would prick up to it.”

“Do tell.”

“My father’s hosting a falconry retreat—as a congratulations to all the youths who placed in this year’s Grand Tourney. Of course, no one from your House is invited,” Tedalgrinche couldn’t quite stifle a derisive little snigger, “but…”

“But what?” Stephanivien asked curtly, still refusing to give him the satisfaction of a greater share of his attention.

“I thought it might be… _unseemly_ for our noble peers of House Haillenarte to be wholly unrepresented in this showing, considering Dzemael, Durendaire, and Fortemps all qualified on their own merits, and—”

“Get to the point,” Stephanivien interrupted, turning to a fresh page in the folio he was writing in. From the corner of his eye he saw Tedalgrinche scowl, and he suppressed a smile.

“Very well. I thought you could have the honor of supplying us with targets should the game be scarce, and we could do you the honor of field-testing your ridiculous hovering whirligigs.” Tedalgrinche had recovered his arrogant smirk, and Stephanivien struggled with the impulse to forcibly remove it from his face again.

“Do you actually think I am so desperate that such an offer sounds worthwhile to me?”

“Not really, which brings me to the _other_ piece of news I had for you.” Tedalgrinche’s voice had dropped to something uncomfortably low, while the other corner of his lips curved up, transforming his smirk into a diabolical smile. Stephanivien felt his heart sink. “My father will also be marking the occasion with a large charitable donation. He’s currently considering the renovation of the church of St. Joulecourt, but… I’m sure I could persuade him to give it to the Charitable Sisters of Halone’s Merciful Shield, or the Brothers Protector of the Poor, or the like.” Stephanivien had stopped taking notes and instead stood very still, his head turned to Tedalgrinche and his gaze searching the knight’s face and posture for any further traps. “You know. If I had a reason to do such.”

And this was the final element of why Tedalgrinche despised Stephanivien. For as much as he was a forward-thinker when it came to frivolities like fashion, he was as hidebound a traditionalist as any member of House Dzemael on all the rest and _particularly_ when it came to matters of the poor and commonfolk. Simply he was a bigot with a particular hatred for class mixing and consorting—and as Stephanivien regarded the whole Ishgardian social order as in dire need of renovation, so Tedalgrinche had for him only slightly less hatred than he did for heretics.

“There’s no need to answer right away,” Tedalgrinche said, still wearing his loathsome smirk. “I’ll give you time to think it over.” And right then he turned on his heel, calling back “You know where to find me,” and leaving Stephanivien alone, wrestling with what he should do now.

 

Inside his father’s office, Stephanivien made to sit before the desk, but Baurendouin beckoned him closer.

“It’s this,” he said, taking his key to the lock of his safe. “I’m afraid I didn’t know how to handle it, at the time, so this seemed the most sensible…” With the door opened, he stepped out of the way, and Stephanivien could now clearly see that inside lay a revolver, pale blue mythrite for its barrel and highland spruce for its stock, very familiar.

“…She turned it in when she resigned, I imagine,” Stephanivien said around the lump in his throat.

“Yes,” said Baurendouin. “Will you return it to your workshop?”

Stephanivien nodded.

“Good, good. Well, I…” Here Baurendouin fidgeted uncomfortably, then patted his son’s shoulder. “I have work to get to, so I will let you alone for this.” Again, Stephanivien nodded, and with one last comforting squeeze on his shoulder, Baurendouin excused himself, quietly closing the door behind him and pretending he couldn’t hear as he left.

 

Despite everything, the world still continued, as Stephanivien well knew it would. Grief was a constant presence in Ishgard, whether the dragon wars ran hot or cold; he was not a stranger to it, only this new shape of it: An absence different in size and form than brothers and friends, a longing that was not softened by the knowledge she wasn’t gone, just elsewhere, just another’s. Someday it might be. But until that day came, Stephanivien thought, he had work to do, and he would keep his nose to the grindstone and damn well _do_ _it_.

…But even with his nose near-skinned from aforementioned grindstone, it grew increasingly, sickeningly clear that something was rotten in the state of Ishgard.

He hadn’t been suspicious at first. Miserable, yes—possibly irrational—but when no one in the Brume or adjacent neighbors would speak to him about the newlyweds among them, he had taken it in stride. Nor had it terribly surprised him when Rostnsthal’s inquiries had also come up short. So obvious an outsider—and not a terribly approachable or personable one—might indeed have been met with only silence no matter what questions he had for them.

It was when Celestaux, who had long been a friend of Joye’s father, had returned with nothing to offer but baffled shaking of his head and sheepish bemusement, that Stephanivien began to fear that something was very wrong. And then, neither had anyone else he’d sent reconnoitering. And now he waited on his last chance (Miette, bless her) before calling for a godsdamned _manhunt_.

The only thing was that he couldn’t imagine either the beneficiary or the motive. There was simply no reason to go after such decent, harmless smallfolk—rather, there wasn’t if the normal predations and venal crimes of Ishgard were excluded, which they must be because otherwise there’d be no reason to buy so _many_ people’s silence. And in his most paranoid moods he wondered if maybe Tedalgrinche had something to do with it, but that was impossible. Tedalgrinche would have had no greater grudge against Joye than he did any other worker at the manufactory, and expending _this much_ work for just one of his manufactory workers? He expected more competence in villainy from the man, and anyhow if he couldn’t convince himself that was a probable cause there wasn’t a chance in any of the seven hells he could convince the Temple Knights of the same.

It was so nonsensically surreal, sometimes he wondered if he was just finally cracking up, breaking down under the stress. But the silence that greeted him whenever he wondered such aloud…

“Isadore Broadbent.” Miette’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “That’s his name. The less famous of the Broadbent brothers, a minor lineage indebted to House Dzemael, depending on the elder’s propensity for hard work with hardwoods and the younger’s propensity for intrigue and brownnosing.” She raised one eyebrow. “Curious that so obvious a social climber would be contented with such a marriage.”

For a moment, Stephanivien couldn’t speak—and when he did, he asked only “Where?”

“Falcon’s Nest.” Miette, ever a woman of few words, nonetheless looked like she had something more to say to him, either caution or chiding or the like, but she swallowed it. “Follow me.”

 

He remembered little of the trip west to the hamlet of Falcon’s Nest, accompanied by Miette and his own fretting. Ever taciturn, she kept to her own thoughts—troubled as they must have been, judging by her expression—but her responsibilities beyond Ishgard were themselves great. And he, uncharacteristically, kept his peace alongside her. Once they arrived, the walls and battlements were as a blur to him, following Miette singlemindedly until _there_ , a flash of blonde hair—

“Joye?”

He knew it was her before she turned, knew it from her size and her shape and her stance and her little freckles in the fork of her twin braids and her way of knotting her apron and her plain thin shoes and her eyelashes and her expression of hunted terror on recognizing him.

Stephanivien stopped dead in his tracks. No—no, that last part was wrong, had to be wrong, and yet…

And yet he’d seen it, and at a glance to Miette he could tell by her expression she’d seen it too, even if once he’d returned his gaze to Joye, she was calming. That fear echoed in her words to him: “What’re _you_ doing here?”

“I—” He knew he had to answer her, and couldn’t leave her hanging—but he stared at her, at Joye who had never spoken like that, who had looked at him with fear in her eyes, as if he could pick out the hair out of place, the miscolored patch of skin, the glamour failure that would show her as some changeling. There of course was none. “I wanted to offer your husband—and you—jobs at the manufactory.” It came out stilted and false-sounding, as if he’d ordered a turret to speak instead of him. Stephanivien licked his lips, swallowed, and tried again. “Just because you have wed—it doesn’t mean—”

“ _No_.” Her eyes were a bit too wide, but she couldn’t bring her gaze any higher than the fence he was standing next to. “I want—It’s best I left that life behind.” And that sounded as false as he had.

“Best?” Stephanivien repeated, almost numb but for disbelief. “Best for who? For _you_ —”

“For everyone, m—your lordship, ser, please…” Her breath hitched and it felt like a knife in his side. “I’ve only ever wanted—a quiet life, an’ not to trouble me l—”

“Joye,” Stephanivien said quietly, and controlling his voice had never before been so hard, “Has this always been true?”

“Me lordship, _please_ ,” And that was surely the way she wrung her hands when agonizing over a choice, “I _can’t_ , I—”

“If you cannot,” Miette spoke then, and her voice was gentle but there was something critically flinty in her expression, “Then would you relay Stephanivien’s offer to your husband? I’m sure that—”

“ _No!_ ” There it was again, that hunted terror and Stephanivien had actually, on instinct, taken a step forward to protect her from whatever it was that so threatened her but no, no, this time that was _him_ — “I mustn’t—I can’t tell him you were here. Please—please, you have to leave. Both of you.”

“Joye…” But she was backing away from him even as he spoke, until her back was against a little door in the grey stone wall.

“I’m glad I got to see you one last time, me lordship,” Joye said, absolutely miserable, and then she vanished into that little grey stone house, locking the door behind her.

 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Miette hissed at him, until she realized that his idea of stupid had less to do with breaking down doors and more— _Gods_ , Miette groaned internally, more likely he would be breaking down in public. “…Look. Look, there’s a pub in town, I’ll…”

“No—” Stephanivien said, and though his voice broke a bit he seemed to be recovering, after a moment dabbing at his eyes and nose with a handkerchief. “No, I’m trying to cut back…” Mostly evenly, he walked out of Joye’s little front garden, and Miette followed gratefully, because the last thing, she was figuring, that Joye needed right now was her neighbors peeping on some big city man bawling in the garden.

“Are you all right?” She asked, reaching up to place a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Only—” Stephanivien leaned into her, sighing very deeply, “Only—I always thought Joye was happiest when she had the stock of her flintlock in hand. Is she really going to sacrifice that happiness for others?” Miette wanted to respond, but Stephanivien kept talking, increasing in speed, “Or—or is it that she never truly wished to be a machinist, that she wanted what she said, that she only suffered the training at my insistence?” He barreled on, like he was at confession, like he hadn’t been in moons. “I—by the Fury, I swear—by arming the commoners, twas my intention to place them on equal footing with us—the nobles who’d seek to rule them. But…” And Stephanivien breathed for the first time since he started that tirade, a trembling sound, “but have I not been caught in the throes of self-righteous ambition? Have I been no better?”

“Whatever sins you’ve committed in this life—and I’m sure they’re plenty,” Miette said, “you are not guilty of that one. I’d bet everything you own on it.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Look—look, are you fine to get back to the workshop on your own?” He nodded. Miette smiled grimly. “Then you had better get. I’ll meet you there later.”

“Where are you going?” Stephanivien’s brow was knit with worry—but also the sharp curiosity she’d come to recognize as one of his trademarks. Good.

“To the Brume. Have to see an elezen about a dog first.”

 

Miette had confidence in him. This was a comfort, yet at the same time Stephanivien was painfully aware she was one of only ones remaining. Celestaux and most of the rest of the manufactory had lost faith—certainly, some of them would come in for regular work, but for battle?

Well, he had to have some measure of faith. Even if they wished along with Tedalgrinche to see him shamed before Ishgard… the stakes were real enough, and high enough. He had to have faith.

The Black Iron Bridge Operation, as Tedalgrinche had dubbed it, would start that day. The Horde scouts were eyeing Falcon’s Nest—with landbound aevises. Hence, they would have little choice other than the bridge, it being as well one of the few roadways connecting the far outlying holdings and territories of Ishgard with the more densely-settled center. Highly strategic for both sides of the war, yet…

Yet there was something here, something at play in this scheme that he was missing, Stephanivien was sure, which was why he was here, up at dawn again to review the maps and the notes yet again. Something just beyond his grasp, a nagging doubt he couldn’t shake: if only he could figure out what he was missing, _that_ would be the key to victory. Frowning determinedly, he set the largest map of Riversmeet on his drafting table, pinning its corners down with empty coffee mugs, and sat back in his chair to contemplate, sipping from the one full mug he had left.

Targets would be engaged at Black Iron Bridge. Would the bridge itself present a particular hazard to machinist combat? None that he could think of—indeed, concentrating the targets in one area was near ideal, especially if the companies of Dzemael knights on the other side were particularly ardent in funneling the dragons to the bridge, as he had excellent reason to suspect they would be. (And that nagging doubt nagged harder, like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, but…) Only thing, he thought, might be a concern would be care with shots—a miss or even an unluckily penetrative shot could hit a knight behind the dragons, and no matter how much _he_ disliked the House most of their knights didn’t actually deserve that.

It was exceedingly unlikely that the bridge itself ran real risk of damage. Previous incarnations of it, yes, those had gone up, but this one had stood impervious as its alloys for more than three centuries and nothing out of the ordinary had been found the last time the civil engineers guild inspected… Unless Dzemael drove a truly unreal number of dragons onto it (there it was, that buzzing…) the bridge would hold.

And of course, beyond the bridge, what they were protecting—what any true child of Ishgard protected—were the lives of her people. Falcon’s Nest wasn’t a large settlement, but even a few lives were too precious to consign to the horde… and that was even before he considered the horrible irony, the cruel twist of fate that had had Joye choose to marry a man who lived there (and every time he did consider it, that droning doubt drowned out all his other thoughts). And that they were defending Falcon’s Nest, not just some flags in a fortress, was why Stephanivien still had hope that his machinists would arrive on the event itself. _Lives_ were at stake, and Fury but it was _disgusting_ of Tedalgrinche to—

All of a sudden, he went stiff and still, barely daring to breathe. With exaggerated care, he put the mug he’d been drinking from aside, then rushed to his kitchen, spitting out the coffee he’d had in his mouth into the sink because if he tried to swallow it he’d vomit. He might still vomit, gaze wide-eyed but unseeing, and all other sound drowned out by a droning buzz in his ears.

Of course. _Of course_.

This was all a game to Tedalgrinche, yes, a game whose object was the humiliation of House Haillenarte in general and himself in particular. Tedalgrinche was a vile man whose choice of the Black Iron Bridge Operation as the pitch on which to play said game was proof of his vileness: he would _try_ to overwhelm the bridge’s defenders even with a village of innocents at stake—they were lowborn! He would consider their injury and death an _acceptable sacrifice_ if it achieved Stephanivien’s humiliation, to that one particular and perverse end there was nothing he wouldn’t do, no one he wouldn’t hurt or kill or—

—and that included _Joye_.

 

Isadore Broadbent was, in his own estimation, doing very well for himself.

His life had seemed much more bumpy and fraught a few weeks ago—back when everything had hung on his brother’s Gods-given talent with a hammer and saw, back when _he_ was the respectable one, and poor, long-suffering Isadore was just riding coattails—now, at last, he was the one who’d win respect for the Broadbents! Of course, thanks to the great and noble Lord Tedalgrinche de Dzemael.

It had all happened rather suddenly, and rather strangely—Isadore had been introducing himself at a wine-tasting, and Lord Tedalgrinche had been there, and he’d actually said “I’ve heard of you” in a tone free from disdain! Even smiled at him over the rim of his goblet! Of course Isadore hadn’t been able to stop himself from striking up a conversation with the only other man of true discernment there, and he’d thought that they were enjoying refreshing repartee when suddenly, he realized, he’d followed the Dzemael lord into his wine cellar, they were alone together, and despite the darkness around them there was uncanny light in Tedalgrinche’s eyes.

The nobleman had taken control of the conversation then. Said he liked him. Thought he had potential. Wanted to “help him help himself,” and though the little laugh that accompanied that remark made the hairs on the back of Isadore’s neck stand on end… the arrangement he’d proposed seemed agreeable. Tedalgrinche had an enemy, one whom he wished to punish by depriving him of a wench. Of course, Isadore initially balked—he’s not a murderer, not a villain!—but Tedalgrinche reassured him, all he had to do was play house with her for a while. She was fearsome as a torama, he’d cautioned Isadore, but… surely taking a disrespectful Brume girl in hand and keeping her in line was within his capability? Isadore had hastily assured him it was.

From there, Tedalgrinche told him, that the rest of details were to be left to him, that he was free to do whatever he liked with this wench so long as she remained alive, and that House Dzemael would remember this service. This was the phrase that lingered, the promise behind it incredible—terrible, yes, for that stern and stark House was capable of great ruthlessness—but for its allies, oh, what a benefactor it was. And in any event, whenever doubt began to build up in him as he waited for Tedalgrinche to deliver him the wench, he simply reminded himself that the alternative was being Tedalgrinche’s enemy. Isadore was very sure he didn’t want that.

And yet, when he’d finally received the summons to Falcon’s Nest—he first thought there had been a mistake. Isadore had been promised a torama, but… she was a _kitten_. Holding a broom demurely, her hair in golden braids, and Gods be good but she had the softest, sweetest voice when she asked if he was the man she’d been promised.

Her name was Joye. And she was sweet and darling and easily frightened, shy and quiet but always helpful, and Gods—Gods, now, Isadore thought, he was living in a dream, a fantasy straight from a storybook, here in Falcon’s Nest, of all places! Whenever he came home, she would make him tea, and there were always cookies or tarts in the house, and so even that grim little grey house (barely more than a tenement compared to the Broadbent family home, he’d first thought with a sniff) felt like his very own castle in the highlands.

And when she took his coat, she wore a tiny smile, and when she caught him watching her do her hair, she would duck her head and blush, and it was always like Isadore imagined it would be. She listened when he talked, and she never ever contradicted him, and tittered shyly when he told a joke, and Gods—maybe it had just been Tedalgrinche? That would make sense, Isadore thought, if she was only fierce to him. After all, he was slowly coming to realize, maybe Tedalgrinche was a wicked man—had to have been a wicked man, for ever, ever suggesting anyone should hurt such a precious little doll. But the important thing was that Isadore was _not_ a wicked man.

And he was coming out on top, here. He’d thoroughly handled Tedalgrinche, and whenever this idyll ended, not only would a lord of House Dzemael owe _him_ , Isadore Broadbent, a favor, but he might well ask Joye to marry him for real. Surely, he thought, watching her fondly as she sliced some figs for him, there wasn’t a single reason why she’d say no.

Just then, there came a thumping on the front door, rather too loud and forceful to be polite, and before Isadore could call out this rudeness his _entire front door_ burst inwards, broken straight off its hinges!

“I say!” Isadore sputtered, as some towering elezen man strode in—his Joye gasped—and then he was followed by a limping, coughing old hyur. “What is the meaning of—”

Isadore didn’t finish his sentence, stilling from the press of steel against his skin. He gaped, incredulous—his Joye was holding her kitchen knife to his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this is the last time I’m increasing the chapter count and the next chapter will be the final one.


	5. Tessellations

“You were right,” Stephanivien said cheerily, through a mouthful of scone. “It _is_ fun to watch the hawkers like this.”

The sun was just high enough not to be at a bothersome angle anymore, so that the two of them didn’t have to squint down the lane where ahead of them all the merchants were setting up to cry their wares.

“When the big bells next ring,” Joye said, turning her tea mug in her hands to better warm them, “then they’ll begin calling.” This part of the Crozier was close enough to wealthy houses that noise ordinances were in place—and Stephanivien already knew that—but that wasn’t the point, the point was the anticipation thick in the air. Almost every merchant had finished setting up for the morning, and the low hum of conversation that rippled from one end of the lane to the other was just a self-aware prelude.

He resisted checking his watch, just sat and watched with Joye—that way it was a little surprise when the first bell pealed, and all the criers at once broke out into their patter and calls. He laughed, and behind him, he realized, were a little band of children who had evidently been waiting on the same thing—only their response was to whoop and cheer before vanishing among the people at work and leisure in the lanes.

“One of them got the last piece of the scone,” Joye whispered.

“I know,” Stephanivien whispered back. “I can buy another.”

When she finished the last of her tea, when they’d returned their dishes to the vendor, they started browsing down the lane—turning it into a sort of game: Stephanivien would quietly offer to buy her something from any and every stall, and she would come up with a reason why he shouldn’t do that. In the end, he only persuaded her into a little bagful of old world figs, on the logic that they were already overripe and splitting and would be absolutely delicious on this day and none other. And besides, they hadn’t gotten to finish the scone.

“But let’s go eat them now,” Joye insisted. “If you keep this game up, people might realize…”

“All right, all right…”

Despite her insistence that this would help maintain the disguise—rather “disguise;” in truth it wouldn’t terribly scandalize him—it still seemed to Stephanivien that she was acting a little on the strange side, as they ate their figs together on a bench. She kept looking at him, then away, then stealing a glance back—no matter how he insisted that she should enjoy the figs, because they _were_ exceptionally good: ruby red insides, sweet sap for sucking, and needing barely any encouragement from his hands to open completely…

“Are you warm enough, my dear?” Stephanivien asked, concerned.

“Yes? Of course I am.” Joye sounded nonplussed, and he shrugged.

“Good. Only your cheeks were so red, I wondered.” She went even redder at that, and Stephanivien decided that it might be for the better to just drop the subject—only for her, suddenly, to lean against his side, such that his arm would naturally fall over her, holding her to him, and… with his own, less obvious reddened cheeks, so he did. When the wind next blew, she didn’t shiver. Neither did he.

“Me lo—I mean,” Joye said, then swallowed, but didn’t speak again for so long that he had thought she had decided against it outright. But then: “Stephanivien?”

It sounded strange in her voice, for she almost never had neither the reason nor the leave to call him by his own proper name—even when he gave it to her, she demurred. It sounded too long, it wobbled up and down like it was on stilts, awkward and jagged. It was perfect.

“Yes, my dear…?” he said, once he had properly recovered himself.`

“I wanted to ask you something—about Lord Tedalgrinche.” He frowned, reflexively, at the intrusion of that man onto this morning, but nodded his assent, and felt her draw in breath deeply. “I know he hates you—an’ you hate him—and you told me he doesn’t hate _me_ , but…” She hesitated, and this time when the wind picked up she did shiver. “But are you sure?”

And as much as he wanted to offer the same easy reassurance he had the last time she had spoken of this doubt, he knew he couldn’t. “…Not individually,” he said. “He doesn’t hate any of the commonfolk individually, but as a collective.” Stephanivien couldn’t help the disgusted expression spreading across his face. “If he possessed the capacity to see the commoners of Ishgard as _people_ , he might hate them specifically. But I honestly doubt he _can_.” And knowing this was the coldest comfort, and knowing that the costume of a working man couldn’t truly disguise him out in public, and no longer caring, he held her tightly to his side, beyond any pretense that it was about the cold.

Joye pressed her face into his coat, and he dared to stroke her shoulder—but they were still, steady; she wasn’t weeping. Though muffled by the thick wool, her voice did not tremble as she asked “Why?”

Stephanivien’s hold tightened once again. “I don’t understand it, but he has ever been like this, no matter what I’ve done.” He couldn’t be appeased by either capitulation or by defiance—Stephanivien had tried both and more. “I used to think he would understand, if only—that I could make him understand, _make_ him see…”

“With the Manufactory?” Joye looked up at him, and he smiled down at her.

“Just so,” Stephanivien said. “But now—well, now, I don’t care anymore. I have…” He swallowed, but in the same spirit of daring, continued, “I care far more about your welfare than his opinions, my dear.”

“My welfare,” Joye repeated, and it was and was not a question, delivered flatly—but she was too smart for this or any other of his evasions, leaning up with her gaze penetrating, chin set determinedly.

“Among other things,” Stephanivien whispered, all the humor he’d meant to inject into that statement fluttering away the same way his heart was, holding eye contact with Joye and his arm about her shoulder and leaning down—

The bells of St. Reymanaud’s rang the next moment, breaking the magic just like they did in faerie tales, and Joye settled down onto the bench, looking around at passersby almost guiltily, her face red and aglow. Abruptly, Stephanivien wondered what those passersby saw, if they cared to look at the two of them. Only abruptly, because he knew they didn’t see the Viscount de Haillenarte, or the master of Skysteel Manufactory, or a maidservant, or a machinist. Only abruptly, because only a moment of thought would provide the answer.

“Should we go back?” Joye asked, as her cheeks and breathing went down.

“Not yet.”

 

His wife was breathing hard but tightly controlled—her breasts might have swelled against her bodice, but her hands were steady as stone, holding her knife to his throat.

“What’s happening?” Isadore said, very slowly, and trying to subtly lean away from her, towards the two strangers (who at least had the virtue of not _threatening_ him).

“I presume you are Isadore Broadbent?” said the tall elezen, who hadn’t moved from where he’d stood after knocking down his door. Isadore’s mind raced: what could all this mean? Obviously they were uncouth thugs for their actions, but… but what did his Joye have to do with it? _Why_ would she do this? And most importantly, why wasn’t she _answering him_?

“I am,” Isadore replied, and he was proud of how despite this tense situation, he was able to keep enough of his class about him that it showed in his voice. He barely spared the thugs a glance, just enough to establish that their mugs were as grim and miserable as he ought to expect—instead his eyes were watching his Joye. Except—no, not _his_ Joye, for _his_ Joye was all warmth and kindness and without a hard edge about her—she wore her darling little heart on her sleeve, bless her—this woman, with fire in her eyes and a frighteningly unreadable expression was as _un_ like his Joye as it was possible to be.

“Then you deserve this,” spat the old man—literally spat, and Isadore felt faint. Why was _any_ of this happening?

“For mercy’s sake,” Isadore said, trying to be measured but mostly only succeeding in heightening his pitch, “what is the meaning of this?” He was almost leaned completely out of his chair now, but the woman wearing his Joye’s once-sweet face was implacable: still the steel lay uncomfortably close to his jugular.

“We’ve come for Joye,” said the tall elezen curtly, almost briskly, and a glimmer of insight flickered in Isadore’s brain: perhaps she had him at knifepoint to… deter them? Was this some part of Tedalgrinche’s scheme? Gods, he ought to have been warned!

“On what business?” If these were Tedalgrinche’s lackeys, then probably, Isadore thought, his Joye didn’t want to go with them, and that’s why he was being held hostage in his own home—perhaps? It would all be so much easier if she would just _answer him_ , like his wife _should_ , like—

Just then, Isadore fell off his chair, and this did seem to catch her by surprise, and _Fury_ but it was good to breathe freely, without fear of steel in the throat! As quickly as he ever had, Isadore scooted backwards, towards the hired men—but before he could stand up properly, the elezen hauled him up to his feet… and then his feet off the ground.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind suggested to Isadore that he might have been mistaken about this man.

“Who are you?” Isadore wanted to sound brave and stoic and befitting his station, but now that he was face to face with the man who’d broken in, his voice shook. What he’d taken for coarse baseborn scowling and thuggish choler was instead a powerful, personal fury, brimming with very directed hatred, his eyes like chips of gemstone and his lips curled with contempt.

“ _I_ am Stephanivien de Haillenarte,” he said, and already all the blood had drained from Isadore’s face before he continued, “and _you_ have kidnapped my love.”

 

There were a lot of hideous things about “marrying” Isadore Broadbent, most of which Joye tried not to think about for fear she would go violently mad. There was the groom himself, a greedy, grasping, incurious and uncouth rodent of a man. There was the isolation, in a ugly, dreary, squat little hovel in a remote village made the meaner for its presence. There was the sickening memory of the sound her father’s body made when it hit the cobblestones, of the guarded hurt and confusion on the Count’s face when she turned in her resignation, of Isadore’s goggling face when he saw her, of Tedalgrinche quietly and infuriatingly triumphant behind him.

But most hideous of all was the terrible certainty of uncertainty. For, mockery of a marriage this was, it would not and could never last. This was just another intrigue to Tedalgrinche, or perhaps an investment—soon, no matter how much his games delighted him, it would end… and what fate would meet his playing pieces? When she and her father were no longer useful to a Dzemael lord, what would he do with them? There were a multitude of possibilities—more emerging each night she dwelled upon them, late into the night, lying on the farthest edge of the bed—and not all were horrid and grim, true, but far more than enough were. Her best hopes, she thought, lay in the potential for accidents, and the fact that Isadore was dim and cowardly, and easily manipulable. And even then—if her escape endangered her father—his lordship…

She hadn’t dared to hope for rescue.

So when the rattly door of her new home blew in and slammed to the floor, when she saw first his lordship and then _her father_ —it was like a dam broke inside, she was swept away by a torrent of emotions, too many to name, too many to _know_. It was all she could do to find something to hold steady to—and that steady thing was that one constant of the past weeks, dammed up behind her whispered voice and sweet rictus smiles: a jet of purest wrath.

Almost before she knew what she was doing she had abandoned her figs, instead pressing the knife into Isadore’s throat, just before the point where flesh would have to give before the blade. And there she stopped herself—not because she hadn’t known what she was doing but because she _had_. And she knew she had won. Whether Isadore lived or died, she’d _won_. She would go home, she would be with her father, she might even be able to return to the manufactory, she—

It startled her when Isadore fell out his chair away from her, it broke the steadiness. Joye’s hands trembled the barest amount—just before Daddy was there, softly taking her hand; his lordship had taken hold of Isadore and everything was okay and she heard him say “my love” and she squeezed Daddy’s hands back, let the knife fall to the floor a moment before she softly crumpled after it.

“Daddy,” Joye said, clinging hard to his hands as he knelt beside her on the floor, one arm around her shoulders as tight as if he too was in danger of being washed away in the flood.

“My girl, my Joye—” His voice was tight in a way she’d only heard a few times in her life and she held him all the tighter for it. “There, I’m here—”

“How did you escape? Who found you?” When she had contemplated Tedalgrinche’s machinations, alone at night in a large and crowded bed, they had seemed vast and almost indestructible, yet—yet here they were, swept aside like spiderwebs.

“Hilda,” Daddy said, and Joye laughed in relief, the sound scratchy and indistinguishable from a hiccup, so long had it been since she’d done so sincerely.

“You all right?” It almost felt like too much to ask for, that he would be whole and hale, but she felt him nod.

“I’m fine, my girl, see? It’ll take more’n that to put your old Dad out, my girl.” He pulled away from her so she could see and yes he did seem older and thinner than she remembered but unhurt. “Don’t need to cry for me, my beautiful girl…” Daddy was smiling at her, one hand to wipe at tear-tracks on her cheeks—she was surprised to realize they had been falling, and when she bent her neck to wipe her face on her sleeve she was surprised again by a hitching sob. His embrace tightened in response, but Joye gently pushed him away, stood and turned to where his lordship still had Isadore pinned to the wall.

She had another matter to tend to.

“Please—Your Grace, _please_ , if I’d known she was _your_ —” Isadore looked, sounded and smelled like he feared for his life—all of his attention was on his lordship, whose fury had not abated in the slightest.

“You would’ve what? Only preyed on someone more helpless?” his lordship growled furiously, and Isadore whimpered.

“I swear, Your Grace, I never touched her, not once, I—” Just then Isadore caught sight of Joye, as she was slowly moving towards them. “You! Tell him, tell him I didn’t—”

He was cut off by his lordship striking him across the face, leaving him gasping from the shock and pain. “How _dare_ you speak to her, after what you—what you’ve—” Joye placed one hand on his arm and he cut that sentence off, drawing in a breath to compose himself. “Tell me what to do with him.” His voice, measured and gone so far through anger that it approximated calm again, was almost soft and gentle in tone to her.

“ _Please_ —” Isadore gurgled, looking down at Joye with watery eyes and a runny nose. “Mercy, I beg you, have mercy—” he continued and received a firm shake for his presumptuousness.

For a long few minutes, the world hung on her choice. She could feel her father’s comforting presence behind her—and before her his lordship waited on her whim, still holding Isadore to the wall like a pinned insect, his feet off the ground, and his glare had remained fixed to the pitiable spectacle that Isadore made. Joye was faced, now, with old knowledge in a new form. She knew her father, like any loving parent, would do anything for his child—he’d more than proven that over her life. She had known his lordship was willing to kill for her—it was part and parcel of the art of machinistry, the unspoken bond between two who were warriors of a fashion, even if Ishgard did not properly regard them as such. That still was not the same as—had not prepared her for—this situation, where a man would live or die on her word, for what he had done to her. This was a power she never before had possessed, and it merited thoughtful exercise.

“Would you want to do it yourself?” Her father asked, his voice unable to fully disguise his disgust for Isadore in his love for her. “His lordship brought your gun, for just such an outcome.” She drew in breath and swallowed.

“I want,” Joye began, very quietly, and to no one and everyone—and _everyone_ in the room hung on her voice, like she was suddenly someone other than a serving maid or a manufactory trainee or a poor Brume girl. “I want,” she repeated herself, and this time it was to Isadore that she spoke, slowly and clearly, “never to see you, ever, ever again, no matter where I go.”

His lordship realized she’d chosen for Isadore to live before the man himself did—he cringed away, when his lordship dropped him to the floor, almost sniveled.

“Get out of my sight, or I will remove you from it.” Joye could count on just one hand the number of times she had seen his lordship actually conduct himself befitting his station. Every one of them were strange and almost thrilling to witness, like what she imagined watching a werewolf transform would be like: fromthe ordinary and everyday emerged a figure of terrible power and passion, standing tall instead of slouched or bent over his work, yet familiar, yet recognizable, even as he directed such fury at whoever dared threaten her.

(She realized, with a start, that of those few times she’d seen him act this way, every one of them had been for _her_ benefit, and it seemed like the angles and planes of this little room were in some way instantly rearranged, with profound implications for the world beyond).

And in the space it took her to realize that, Isadore at last realized he’d been spared. For once he had the sense and dignity to keep his mouth shut, and silently scurried out the open doorway, like a hunted animal. And now…

“My girl…” Her father said, holding her shoulders. “Better’n us both.” He gave his lordship a sidelong look, which it took a moment to be returned.

“Yes, well…” Was he… yes, yes he _was_ blushing, and Joye wanted to giggle, but did not and settled for enjoying the wanting. “…I’m glad of it, all the same.”

“Mmhmm…” Joye murmured in agreement. After a moment, the feeling of how her father was embracing her changed, his balance shifted and he let her go.

“Well—I haven’t just you two to check on,” he said, looking between his lordship and her in a pointed fashion. “Celestaux needs to know I’m in one piece.” He gave his lordship a very significant look, the precise significance of which Joye did not guess at until he had gone—the door unable to be closed; he was gone when his footsteps were no longer audible—and she turned her gaze to his lordship.

Almost shyly, all the wolfish energy long gone from him, he took a knee before her, and when he lifted his head to face her his eyes shone.

“My dearest Joye,” he said, “I am beyond sorry.”

And that could have been enough, in another life it might have been enough, but in this one it was exactly and precisely too much. Not like a dam breaking but like a sinkhole opening, her breath fled her lungs and drawing it back in made a sobbing sound and her tears fell down her face in a stream. Joye threw herself against him, arms clasping around his neck like she didn’t know whether to choke him or hug him—but whatever she decided he welcomed it, welcomed her with open arms.

“If I had realized sooner—I’m so sorry, my dear—I didn’t think it was a plot until the very end—” Her fingers dug deep into the shoulders of his shirt, her forehead braced against his collarbone, and if it hurt he didn’t mind. “I’m the reason Tedalgrinche put you through this—and if you can’t come back I promise, I won’t be angry—but—” He tried to nudge her head up, to see her face, but she denied him, kept it buried in his chest and soaking his shirt through. “I am so sorry.”

They stayed like that. Joye didn’t keep track of how long, but when she ran out of tears and her breathing smoothed out, it was accompanied by the realization that her heels and her knees and all of her that wasn’t touching him was chilled from the draught, from the door broken down and still open. Hesitantly, she let go of his shirt, pulled away from him—still silent; he watched her anxiously.

“Earlier,” she began, and though her voice was hoarse from crying she ignored it, “you called me your—your love.”

“Ah—” His face (and now she could see the shiny tracks of tears there) went red again. “I had—my plan was—”

Joye shook her head and shut his mouth. “Stephanivien.”

 

His plan had not been well-rehearsed, but he _had_ had one—it just hadn’t survived the sight of Isadore, much less seeing Joye’s reaction—every time he had blinked since he saw that instant again, her eyes without light and her hands without pity—from that point the plan went up in smoke, maintaining any self-control had been all he could do—and regarding what he said, he meant it and it was _true_ and he hadn’t intended for right that moment, he had intended for his confession not to be an instruction, a condition, but then he had intended so many things—

—is what Stephanivien had planned to say, before she said his name. She spoke softly, and gently, and right away he was as breathless as if he’d gotten all of his planned explanation out in one breath. His hands still rested on her, one at her hip and the other at her side, at the ready in case she started crying again; with nervous energy he gently stroked over her dress, waiting once more on her word.

“Say it again,” Joye said, and he could have wept or burst.

“My love,” Stephanivien said, and when she smiled at him he pulled her down into his embrace. “My love, my love—I dared to hope but not more…” He stroked her cheek, gently, and his heart swelled fit to explode when she laid her hand over his. “Not before now, my dear, my love.”

Joye lowered her gaze, and tugged very slightly at his hand on her cheek—and he lowered it, followed her gaze as she wound her fingers between his from behind, her palm over the back of his hand. Her thin fingers slid into the gaps between his easily, the very tips of her fingernails catching on a rough line of his palm. He flexed his fingers and turned his wrist; it was simple to catch her hand in his—not only large enough to envelope hers, but to leave room for her to withdraw at will. Joye’s breath caught in her throat but she did not pull away, rather pressed her palm more insistently against his, studying how they matched up—their hands were very different shapes, hers with a fleshy palm and tapering fingers, his hands long-fingered on a squared palm, pronounced joints and bitten nails. What she saw in this comparison, she didn’t say and he didn’t dare break the silence to ask, only gently folded her knuckles over his first finger (stroked very briefly with his thumb), lifted her hand to his lips—bowed his head and softly pressed his mouth to her fingers, as much the penitent as the romantic (and _Fury_ but somehow there were still traces of the taste of figs).

“My love,” Joye said, musing and smiling. She brought her other hand to his, he took them both safe and secure enveloped in his. An incongruous match, a strange set of puzzle pieces to assemble…

“If you’ll have me,” Stephanivien whispered, bowing his head to her captive hands again, and she in turn bent her neck to chastely kiss the top of his head.

“Every day, every dawn, my dear,” Joye answered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this!!! I do not expect to repeat this experiment with posting!!! I do expect to return to these ridiculous two!!! Have a good night!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s give publishing chapters as I finish them instead of all at once a try, hm...?
> 
> Anyhow one thing that bothered me in the development of Ishgard in Heavensward was that despite bloodlines and family names and so forth being so important there, there was very little following that to where it must conclude and what that kind of thing means for the lives of the main cast, being that most of them were nobility. So that’s what underlined a lot of my thinking in the process of making this.
> 
> (Also that I consumed far too many period romances during my formative years)


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